


Rest

by sunlightdances (glowinghorizons)



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Nurse OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26376589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowinghorizons/pseuds/sunlightdances
Summary: Mary sighs, stopping in her tracks from where she was gathering what little supplies they have left. “Captain, why isn’t your unit medic taking care of this?”His face goes hard. She regrets her tone immediately, but he gives her no room to soften her approach or apologize. “He was a little occupied, what with the ambush we walked into today.” He says, vitriol lacing his voice. She doesn’t blame him. Stupid, she curses herself. Why can’t you ever bite your tongue?“I’m sorry, sir. It’s been a long day. But I suppose it has been for you too.”“It’s Nixon,” he says after a long beat. “Lewis Nixon. I’m with Easy Company, 506th.”Nix gets wounded near the end of the war and meets a Nurse.
Relationships: Lewis Nixon/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 12





	Rest

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I don’t own Band of Brothers, and my characterization is based off the Ron Livingston’s portrayal and not the real life Nixon.

Someone is complaining _loudly_ on the other side of the room. Mary tries her best to ignore them – she definitely has her hands full – but the voice demands attention. She thinks idly he sounds like someone who is pretty used to getting what they want.

“I’ve got it, Doris, thank you,” she says to the nurse who had been trying to placate this soldier. She glances at the bars on his lapel. “Can I help you, Captain?”

He scowls at her. It’s not the first time. She sees more irritated and angry soldiers during the day than she’d like, but she knows it’s not their fault. They’ve seen horrors she only gets bits and pieces of.

“Are you hurt?” Mary asks, trying to get a response.

“I have a–” he winces, “– _small_ wound. I was told not to leave until someone takes a look.”

Humming, she looks him over briefly, not really seeing anything of issue. “Where are you wounded?”

“Here,” he gestures towards his bicep. “It’s not bleeding anymore.”

“What happened?”

“Ricochet.”

Mary sighs, stopping in her tracks from where she was gathering what little supplies they have left. “Captain, why isn’t your unit medic taking care of this?”

His face goes hard. She regrets her tone immediately, but he gives her no room to soften her approach or apologize. “He was a little occupied, what with the ambush we walked into today.” He says, vitriol lacing his voice. She doesn’t blame him. _Stupid_ , she curses herself. _Why can’t you ever bite your tongue?_

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s been a long day. But I suppose it has been for you too.”

“It’s Nixon,” he says after a long beat. “Lewis Nixon. I’m with Easy Company, 506th.”

“Mary Lawrence.” She answers. “Alright, off with the shirt, Captain.”

He looks a little taken aback.

“How am I going to treat your wound if I can’t see it?”

He looks like he wants to smile; his lips twitch, but he just begins taking off his jacket gingerly. Mary moves around to help him keep his arm still. “You know, if you wanted to get me out of my shirt, you could just ask. It’s been awhile since a woman has seen me like that.”

No different than the hundreds of comments she hears every day, but she smiles softly, aware he can’t see her. She’s just glad he doesn’t seem as angry as he did when he came in. If flirting helps him feel better, then so be it.

As soon as the shirt comes off, the bleeding starts again.

“God _dammit_ ,” he curses. He catches her eye. “Sorry.”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before,” she says, grabbing a wet cloth from the tray next to her. Cleaning his wound, she’s relieved it’s not as deep as it looked upon first glance. “You’ll need stitches. Your medic will have to keep an eye on it and make sure it stays dry.”

He chuckles. “No offense, but fat chance.”

Mary smirks. “Europe, huh?”

“Not the vacation I planned, that’s for sure.” He replies dryly.

They’re both quiet as she continues to work. The bullet had grazed him, and as he suspected, it was just a ricochet, otherwise this could have been a lot worse. She wonders how many superiors had to bully him into showing up at the aid station today; he doesn’t seem like the type that’s too concerned about his own well-being.

“How long have you been here?” He asks, voice soft.

“Shipped to England in ‘43. There was a lot for us to do even before the landings. We’re assigned to the 101st and have been traveling right behind you since Normandy.”

Nixon frowns. “Are you this close to the line regularly?”

Mary rolls her eyes as she tugs on the next stitch a little harder than she means to. He yelps, and she can’t help but smirk. “We’ve been trained just like you,” she says, “Besides, we’re no help if we’re too far away from the line.”

Finishing the last stitch, she ties off the thread and gives him one more swipe with the cloth to clean off the blood. “That should hold,” she says, “but you’ll have to be careful not to tear your stitches. Your medic can probably re-do them if needed, but he’s probably not as gentle as I am.” Her tone is dry, but she winks at him when he laughs in surprise.

“Thank you, Nurse.”

“Please, call me Mary.”

“Mary.” He echoes. Was his voice always that deep? Mary has to force herself to focus on cleaning up and not just staring at his sharp jaw and dark eyes like she wants to.

“You’re clear to go, Captain,” she tells him after a few moments. “I don’t want to see you back here.”

“Too bad.” He grins at her.

“Incorrigible.” She mutters under her breath.

“What was that?” He asks, tugging his jacket back on.

“On your way, soldier.”

From the door, there’s a knock. When they both look up, there’s another officer there, probably from the same unit.

“I’m your ride, pal.” He says. “We’re on the clock.”

“For what, another ambush?”

“You’re the intelligence officer.” The shorter man replies.

“Welshy, this is Mary. Mary, this is Welsh. Don’t pay any attention to him or anything he says about me.” Nixon says, adjusting his collar.

Mary smiles at the banter between the two. Clearly they were close.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Welsh replies. “Is he okay? I know the entire battalion is really broken up about that scratch he’s got there.”

Nixon rolls his eyes. Mary grins again. “He’ll be fine. Just a few stitches.”

“A few stitches.” Nixon says under his breath. “She stuck me with a needle a few thousand times.”

“Lucky her,” Welsh says breezily, smiling at Mary. “Look, we have to go. Tick tock.”

Nixon gathers the rest of his things and gives one last look at Mary, sending a small salute in her direction as he leaves with the Lieutenant.

Mary shakes her head as she hears them bickering all the way to the door and outside, where she hears the familiar rumble of a jeep as it takes off.

.

.

.

_March, 1945_

Mary is doing inventory for what feels like the hundredth time that day when a familiar figure stalks by the door to the room she’s in.

Blinking in disbelief, she sets down her clipboard and goes out the door, turning to her left to try to catch him.

“Captain Nixon?” She calls, stopping him in his tracks.

When he turns around, she can tell right away that he’s drunk and exhausted. She’s surprised he’s even still on his feet. “Mary.” He greets, “Just the nurse I was looking for.”

“What happened? Are you hurt?”

“Somehow, no.”

She takes a few steps closer until she can grab his elbow and tug him in the direction of a more private room. He doesn’t give any indication anything is wrong physically, but she can _feel_ the storm brewing in him.

“The entire plane went down,” he says nonchalantly. Mary’s stomach sinks.

“ _Christ_ –”

“I’m fine.” He continues. “Not a scratch. The other guys though…” He trails off, shrugging. “Now I have to write all these goddamn letters.”

“Captain…” She trails off, not really knowing what to do for him. She’s not a stranger to combat fatigue. God knows she’s seen enough of it in the years she’s been overseas. It’s different for every man, every soldier.

“I don’t know why I came here.” He admits, shoulders slumping. “Wanted to make sure you were still alive, I guess.”

“Sit down.” Mary says. “Please.”

He stares at her. “I have to get back to the CP. I don’t know why I came here,” he repeats. His entire face crumples as he bites back a sob. Mary wonders if he’s ever let himself cry during this entire godforsaken war.

She’s moving before she can talk herself out of it, taking the brunt of his weight as he nearly collapses against her, helping him into a chair. She stays crouched in front of him, hands finding the side of his face as he struggles to catch his breath.

He’s apologizing, over and over, but she shushes him.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, even though it’s not okay, they both know that. So much death is still happening around them every day, and for what? The war is basically over, and still, like the men from his plane, someone has to write condolence letters to grieving families. It seems like it will never end.

“Jesus, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He says, voice raspy.

“You’re tired,” she says. “And you’re drunk.”

“I’ve been drunk nearly the entire war,” he quips, but there’s no bite to it. Not now.

“Is someone going to come looking for you?” Mary asks.

He sighs, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “Dick will eventually.” He looks at her briefly before going back to stare at his hands. “Major Winters,” he amends.

“You should try to get some rest before you have to get back. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”

“I don’t have time.” He tries to get up, but stops at Mary’s hand on his shoulder. He sinks back into the chair, almost like he was looking for an excuse to stay sitting.

“Make time, Captain. You’re no good to anyone if you’re exhausted.” Lowering her voice, she adds, “You need to sleep off the booze, too.”

He scowls, but does as she says. He sinks into the chair deeper – and it’s not like it’s an armchair, but she supposes soldiers get used to making anywhere a place to sleep if they don’t have a choice – and his eyelids are already drooping.

“I don’t understand why they all died except me.” He whispers. Mary wonders if she was meant to hear it at all.

Crouching down next to him again, she tugs his helmet out of his hands and puts it on the floor next to him. His hand finds hers before she can straighten up.

“Stay.” He says quietly, eyes already closed.

Sighing, Mary wishes they had met in another place at another time. She imagines his face free of worry, free of grief, and feels an ache when she remembers how quick he was to smile and flirt when she first met him. It feels like years ago now.

She manages to disentangle her hand from his long enough to drag a chair from the corner closer to him, and no sooner has she sat down than his long fingers are searching for hers again. She catches the corners of his lips twitching, and feels some of her worry leave him.

That man she met in Holland is still in there, somewhere.

It’s not long before his friends come to find him. Major Winters is imposing, but Mary can see the worry written all over his face.

“Christ, Nix.” He says to his friend, who is still asleep. He glances at her, “You must be Mary.”

“Mary Lawrence, sir.” She says, trying to stand.

He waves her off. “Don’t worry about getting up.” This man too, has the look of someone who has seen too much. Her heart aches for both of them. “How long has he been here?”

“An hour or so.” She says. “He showed up and I could tell something was wrong, but he’s not hurt.”

“Not physically,” Winters says quietly. “He told you about the jump.” At Mary’s nod, he continues. “He’s been demoted. The drinking is becoming a problem with Colonel Sink. Now it looks like it’s my problem, too.”

“Sir, at the risk of speaking out of turn, he’s just tired. You all are. This isn’t uncommon.” Mary doesn’t know why she feels like she needs to defend Lewis Nixon. She’s talking to his best friend. She can see he’s just worried, but she feels like he needs to know.

Winters’ eyes soften when he looks down at her. “Thank you, Nurse. Mind if I leave him here for another hour? I need him rested for a briefing later.”

“It’s no trouble, sir.”

.

.

An hour later after she’s done her rounds, she makes her way back towards the sleeping Captain.

His neck is going to regret the position he’s in now, slumped forward in the chair, but she almost doesn’t have the heart to wake him.

Regretfully, she reaches out and shakes his shoulder lightly. He groans, but doesn’t make any other move to get up.

“Nix,” she whispers, using the nickname she’s heard. “You have to go back to your CP.”

“Comfortable,” he mumbles. “What time is it?”

“Time for you to go, or Major Winters will have both our heads.”

“He’s all bark but no bite.” Nixon counters, and Mary smiles despite herself, happy to see that he seems more like himself. “Thanks for letting me stay here.” He says quietly, getting to his feet. He gathers his gear and takes a few steps towards the door, but pauses when he gets there.

Turning around, he comes back towards her and plants a kiss on her cheek. Her heart fluttering, he takes her hand and presses another kiss to her palm, and then he’s gone.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my HBO war blog [@softspeirs](https://softspeirs.tumblr.com)! I'm currently taking requests, though no promises as to getting them done quickly.


End file.
